Playing the Hero
by Max Alleyne
Summary: You did it in Belfast and got shot for it. You did it in Munich. You did it just now. I'm a big girl, Michael. I don't need you getting shot for me."


**A/N:** So, after watching "A Dark Road," I couldn't help but wonder how things would have been different if Fi were at the stadium. So, here's my idea of how that would go. Slightly non-canon, but I hope you enjoy it.

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When working as a covert operative, you don't always get to choose your assets. More often than not, you just have to do the best you can with what you have, because assets aren't always going to be ideal. Of course, when given ideal assets, then the situation tends not to be ideal. Either way, when working as a spy, you had best be prepared for anything and everything that could possibly happen, or you aren't going to last very long.

There is a reason that you don't take a wounded colleague—particularly one that you happen to have a romantic attachment to (whether you want to acknowledge that or not)—into a situation where you can't control all the variables. If you can't control all the variables, you run the very high risk of getting this person killed. However, sometimes, you just can't make people understand, particularly when they are someone that has a romantic attachment to you. In this case, it is best to distract them with another task. If this fails, your other option is incapacitating them. When neither of these works, you can only do your best to keep them out of danger.

The stadium is an ideal location for a sniper. There are trees across the river to provide plenty of cover for them, and the rows of chairs give me very little. If there were a sniper, he can slip away without being seen. All exits are out in the open, making me a sitting duck. I'm sure that's the reason they chose this place, but I'm also sure that they wouldn't have invited me out here just to kill me. That could have been done all too easily when he—or she, if I'm being politically correct—lit a hotel room on fire.

The problem isn't the danger this situation posed to me—though, I don't really care for it. The problem is that Fi won't stay home. Because while I can mostly guarantee that I'll be safe—though I still decide to wear Kevlar underneath my suit—I can't guarantee that Fi will be. But she wants to come. She's tired of sitting around under the influence of painkillers, and I can't say that I blame her. However, she is refusing to stay home, and worse, refusing to stay in the shadows with Sam.

"Fi, if he wants to talk to me, he isn't going to hurt me. But you're fair game. There's nothing to stop him from taking you out if he wanted to—"

"I'm not entirely helpless, Michael. I got shot in the arm, I'm not crippled," she hissed quietly. "You might need back up."

"Which is why you and Sam stay here. You can't back me up if you're dead!" I answered, trying to keep my voice calm. I can already tell that this is a battle I'm going to lose. When Fi gets it in her mind that she is going to do something, no one—literally, no one—can talk her out of it.

"Whoever this is clearly wants to establish a relationship with you. They wouldn't risk that relationship by threatening me."

"Or they use you to show me how serious they are. Stay with Sam. Please, Fi." My voice softens as I ask her one last time. I know she's going to fight to come with me—and that she's going to win—but I have to try anyway. I can see her expression soften for a moment, before she kisses me on the cheek and walks out into the open.

"Fi! Fi! Fiona!" I tear after her, leaving Sam standing in the shaded entrance. "Cover us as best you can," I tell him. He nods and pulls his pistol from out of its place in the waistband of his pants. As soon as I step into the open, a phone starts ringing. Without any apparent fear of the consequences, Fi begins following the sound, trying to locate the phone. She pulls it from beneath one of the seats and hands it to me.

"Hello?" I keep my voice light, trying to hide my concern for Fi, and my own concern for my safety.

"Sorry we missed each other at the hotel." The voice is masculine, with an English accent that gives the speaker a polished air, no matter how unpolished he may be. Immediately, I start running through the names of all the English assets that I have ever worked with—or against—before.

"Me, too. "

"I've heard so much about you. It's an honor to see you in the flesh. You're quite a puzzle, Mr. Westen. Fascinating," he says.

"Far more interesting in person. Who are you?" I look over at Fi, who is hanging on my every word, just as interested in finding out about this guy as I am.

"Oh, now I can't just tell you, now can I? Where's the fun in that? I'm trying to figure out what kind of man you are. I need to figure out if you're someone I want to get to know better, or someone I should kill." Upon his words, the back of the chair nearby explodes. I know that Sam is already on guard, and Fi suddenly has her pistol—that HK USP compact with the silver slide—in her had, ready to shoot back.

"Well, let me know when you make up your mind," I say, my voice far calmer than I feel. Fi is taking cover behind a chair, but she's still incredibly exposed. My adrenaline is racing, but I stand still, determined not to let this guy know just how worried I am about Fi.

"Oh, you'll know…and tell that lovely little minx with you to keep out of your business. I'd hate for anything to happen to her."

And my calm is gone. I run to where Fi has taken cover, and she greets me with a smile. It's that smile that tells me that she is thriving in this situation, that she loves the adrenaline coursing through her veins. My look of concern does not seem to have any effect on her whatsoever.

"We've got to get back to the exit," I say urgently.

She arches a curious eyebrow. "One, two, three, go?" she asks teasingly.

"Fi, whoever this is, he isn't particularly pleased that you're here. On my count, you take off for that exit, and you get there as fast as you can. I'll be right behind you. Whatever you hear, do not stop. Do you understand?" My voice is full of barely controlled urgency. I'm not the panicking type. Years in international espionage have taught me not to panic, but its Fi…again. I almost lost her last time, and I'm not going to run that risk again.

"Of course I understand. I'm not a five year old." She turns away, ready to go on my word, before quickly turning back to face me. "But Michael, don't get yourself shot trying to be a hero, because I will have to come back for you."

"One. Two." I look over my shoulder, trying to determine where the bullets are coming from, but there are just too many possibilities. It seems to have died down, but that can always be deceptive. "Three!"

She takes off running, and I'm not even a step behind her. I'm right behind her, my larger frame shielding her smaller one from any potential bullets. The four-point-eight seconds it takes for the two of us to get up the stairs seem longer than they should. Just as we reach the exit, I hear one final gunshot, and the concrete beside me is exploding. I knock Fi to the ground and roll—carrying the two of us safely under cover.

It's clear that she's in pain—her arm still isn't fully healed yet—and that chaotic smile is gone. Sam is rushing to us, already assessing our condition. Other than some bruises and scrapes from the concrete, we're fine. But Fi's expression tells me that something isn't fine.

"You alright?" Sam asks, trying to kill the tension. It doesn't work.

"Yeah. We're fine," Fi answers, and then she's up and moving.

"Sam, I need you to look into something for me. This was just like a stadium shooting a few years back in South America. Can you look—"

"Already on it, brother," he answers. He settles himself into his car and peels away, leaving Fi and I standing there alone. She opens the passenger side door to the Charger, and slams it behind her. I know it's going to be a long ride home, and I brace myself for it.

"How's your arm?" I ask as I crank the car.

"It's fine. How's yours?"

"It's fin—" Then I look down and realize that my arm isn't entirely fine. A piece of concrete from that last shot had torn through my sleeve and cut my arm. It wasn't deep enough to do any real damage; it was just deep enough to bleed a lot. The entire upper part of my sleeve had turned a strange red-grey color, making the wound look considerably worse than it was.

"It just looks bad, Fi. It's not deep."

"I told you not to play the hero. He wasn't shooting to hurt me, he was shooting to let you know he could," she said angrily. "You could have gotten yourself killed trying to save me when I didn't need saving."

"Fi—"

"Don't "Fi" me. You think I haven't noticed? You've done it for years—since we got held up in Belfast together. You try to shield me from potential snipers. You did it in Belfast and got shot for it. You did it in Munich. The last night we were together in Dublin, you put yourself in front of the window. When we were Christmas shopping, you kissed me in the parking lot and hoped I wouldn't notice that you were doing it. And just now. I'm big a girl, Michael. I don't need you getting shot for me," she said, the words spilling out her mouth as though she had no control over them.

I should have known that she had noticed. While she thrived in chaos, that didn't mean that she didn't notice all the little details of it. That was probably the reason that she was able to survive it. In Belfast, she had been able to locate the snipers faster than I had. She probably knew more about our mystery man's location today than I did. I should have known that she would notice something like this.

It had started in Belfast. We were desperately trying to maintain our cover, and in one last attempt to do so, we had played the couple –in-an-alley card. I had pushed her into the corner, blocking her body with mine, all the while knowing that if things didn't work, we were going to be in deep trouble. Looking back on it, I'm sure she noticed it even then, but I couldn't not do it. A good spy, or I should say, a by-the-book spy wouldn't have done it. But I have to. I can't let anything happen to Fi. Not when I can stop it.

"Fi, I can't—I…O'Neil almost took you away from me. I can't…If I can keep that from happening…" Only Fi can cause me to be at a loss for words, and she knows it. I watch the anger and annoyance drain from her face as she watches my struggle for words. I'm so not good at this.

"Michael, it's okay. He didn't. I'm still here, and you're still here…though you might not be if you don't stop trying to protect me, noble as that is." She kisses me gently on the cheek, and I know that things are okay with us. "Besides, sniper bullets have such a high velocity that they would go through you and hit me anyway."

I know this—anyone with any sort of weapons training knows this—but I've always pushed it from my mind. I like to believe that I can protect her from everything, even though she can do it on her own. But there's something terrifying about admitting that you can't protect the ones you love, so I've always tried to ignore the fact. But I can't anymore. I have to accept that I can't protect her from everything. But then, she does a pretty good job for herself.

"You can't protect me from everything, Michael. You can't even always protect yourself."

"I know. But I figure that between the two of us, we do a damn good job."

She rolls her eyes and laughs, and I know that she knows how things are going to be. I'll keep trying, the same way that she'll keep trying to protect me. She'll continue to tag along, even when she shouldn't, the same way that I'll always keep an eye out for her. And maybe, between the two of us, we can make it work.

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**A/N: **So, there it is. I hope you enjoyed it, and I hope you review! I have an idea about the "time they were held up by those English bastards in Belfast" (Sean's words, not mine). I'm trying to decide if I should write it or leave it at the glimmerings you get here. Let me know how you feel about that. Please review!!!! =)


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